


like the wind is blowing

by indecisively_yours



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indecisively_yours/pseuds/indecisively_yours
Summary: Thunderstorms, rum, and tea lights never mixed quite as well as this.





	like the wind is blowing

She first notices the change in his features when they announce it on the weather channel. The potential for such a storm had been announced at the beginning of the week and tonight the meteorologist just reiterates what the grey skies all day had clued them in on— _rain, thunder, lighting, and oh should we just tack on ‘worst thunderstorm this month’ already?_

With the tires on the bug only safe enough to drive to work or the nearest tire shop _without_ rain pounding on the streets, she had promised Henry he could sleep over at his friend’s house if the storm had actually approached. She didn’t think she’d have to trade someone’s excitement for someone else’s utter _dread_  at the situation. 

The first flash of lightning stills him at the armchair he had nestled into moments ago and when the crack of thunder rolls through five seconds later, his knuckles turn white around the mug in his hand. The second wave that rolls through shakes the windows, causing him to shake in response. 

She had invited him over at Henry’s insistence. The kid had a knack for multi-tasking; while he pleaded with Emma to allow the sleepover, he had also asked her to invite Killian over. Leave it to her son to befriend their neighbor better than she had, so much so that he probably knows why thunderstorms affect him so and she’s still at a loss. 

It’s the third wave of thunder and lightning, this one paired with heavy rain and heavier winds that bang on her window so hard she’s sure the building’s swayed some, that has him jump and spill the mug of hot cocoa on himself—and on her couch pillows, too. 

“I apologize, love,” Killian quickly says, words tumbling out of him as he springs up from the couch. He’s quick on his feet, throw pillow in hand as he makes his way to the kitchen to clean off the stain that’s threatening to set. 

Her hand comes to rest over his arm as she stills him, giving it a light squeeze so he could look at her. “Single mom of a ten year-old, remember? There are worse things than hot cocoa stains. Leave it. Come back and sit. We’ll put on a movie.”

He insists and insists, going as far as turning on the sink and soaping up the sponge, but Emma just rolls her eyes as she pries the pillow from his hands, unzips the cover, and pulls off the pillowcase. She raises a brow and he finds himself beat, drying his hands as he heads back to the living room. 

She returns a few moments later with a bottle of rum and two glasses. “To pass the time,” she says (though if either of them know it’s for his nerves neither one says a thing). They settle on _The Mummy_ ( _a classic, Swan,_ he insists, and all but makes them watch it when she admits it’s been years since she’s last sat through it) and within minutes they’re both fully engrossed. 

He’s only refilled his tumbler once, rather distractedly at best, and the librarian’s just passed out from too much drink when there’s a draining sort of sound and the television fades to black just as they’re plunged into blackness around them. 

“Bloody hell,” Killian mutters, and although they’re plunged into darkness she can tell he’s knocked back the rum in his glass and might be reaching for the bottle yet again. 

“Hey,” Emma says as she reaches out for his hand. The warmth she feels upon contact isn’t lost to her. They haven’t touched since dinner two days ago when they both reached for the salt at the same time.

(That was yet another one of Killian’s appearances at Henry’s insistence and honestly, if she didn’t know any better she’d swear her son was playing matchmaker. But that’s neither here nor there right now.) 

“I’ve got a couple of candles we could use to light up this place. Lend me a hand?” Her choice of words dawns on her and she’s suddenly thankful for the darkness because the last thing she needs to see is how she’s suddenly offended him 

Instead she’s met with a light laugh. The flash of lightning flooding through her windows reveals the small smile gracing his face and she’s glad she hasn’t gone and suddenly ruined this friendship of theirs with her poor choice of words. For Henry’s sake, that is. 

A couple of candles turns out to be the leftover pack of tea lights from that dinner they had made for David and Mary Margaret’s anniversary a few months back. In just a few minutes, twenty or so tea lights litter the dining room table, lights and shadows revealing so much of the room and so much of him at the same time. 

When they sit, she’s brought the bottle of rum from the coffee table and refilled their glasses, sliding one over to him. He catches it with his good hand as his prosthetic plays with one of the nearby lights, sliding the small circle back and forth across the table. 

Another crack of thunder follows a bright flash of lightning, this one cracking and booming so loud she’s sure it has to be somewhere near their street. He jumps, hand beginning to shake so much that not even the third tumblr of rum of the night does the trick to calm his nerves. 

“My last group home wasn’t the best,” Emma begins to say as she picks up her legs and folds them on the chair. She doesn’t know why she’s beginning with this story, why she’s sharing this with him at a time like this, but she feels as though she has to—if not for her then at least for him. “No, it was by far the worst. It’s what propelled me to do whatever I had to in order to avoid going back into the system.”

“Swan, you don’t—”

She shakes her head as she reaches out for one of the tea lights, moving it forward on the table. “Bad doesn’t even begin to cover it. My foster dad hated everything. My foster mother was too drunk to care. They spent their nights yelling at one another over everything and nothing at all. It’s like I couldn’t escape it, anywhere I went in that house. Granted, I didn’t last long there, but.”

She shrugs, staring off at a flame that begins to flicker in one of the lights. It takes her a moment to register it, the weight of his prosthetic in her hand, the fact that he had reached out to her sometime along the beginning of her story. She looks up at him as he stares at her, completely frozen. Catching the flicker of moment, the split second he decides to pull away because there’s intimacy and then there’s _this_ , she stops him with a curl of her fingers around his palm. 

“Storms were my solace,” she tells him. “My escape until I could really escape from that hellhole. For just a few moments, a few claps of thunder, a bit of rain pounding on the windows, I could block them out. I could pretend I was somewhere else, with a family who wanted me around and didn’t see me as just some paycheck.”

She’s worried she’s said too much. They haven’t shared. _They don’t share_. Sharing’s something she’s reserved for her son and from what she’s gathered of their bond it’s something he’s reserved for Henry, too. So when she goes to pull her hand away, she’s surprised at the feel of warmth against her palm, at the feel of his skin against her own as he slips his hand toward hers. 

“The accident, the one where I…” He glances down at his hand—at his _other_  hand—before he shakes his head. “The one where I lost my hand was the same accident where I lost my brother. It was raining, quite like this that night. He and I were arguing. He had found out about my activities, about how I had been spending my free time. He wanted the best for me, he always did, but he didn’t think I’d find it with a married woman. Thought I was a bloody fool for thinking it.” 

He pauses, collecting his thoughts. She finds she had moved closer to him, hand still in his hold, and yet makes no plans to move away. Not now. 

“That stubborn arse had his opinions,” he says with a melancholic smile. “I had mine, too. Learned to never back down from a fight from him, actually. It all happened so fast. Lightning. Five seconds. Then thunder. The car shook and the rain just poured and he must have crossed over the line without realizing it. Bloody road was so narrow. How were we supposed to see the truck coming towards us?”

“Killian, I’m so sorry.”

He offers her a tight-lipped smile, pained unhidden in the dim lights of the candles. “First time I’ve shared that story with anyone. I tend to replay it in my head on nights like these. Keeps me awake enough to think of a decent excuse as to why I’m strolling into work as if I’ve spent the night at a distillery.” He forces that smile back on his face as he looks up from their hands. “Believe it or not, Swan, not even your lad’s heard this tale.”

She smiles at his attempt to lift some of the heaviness now burrowing itself into her chest, the same one that must take up permanent residence in his. “I’ll break it to him nicely, I promise.”

Her question of whether the storm’s calmed down enough or not is quickly answered as another crack rolls through and Killian squeezes her hand in response. 

“Apologies, love, I—”

Emma quickly shakes her head. Getting up from the table, she pulls him up to his feet along with her. “Do you trust me?” she asks. His answer of, “Aye,” comes without hesitation before she bends down and begins to blow out all but one of the lights. 

She reaches for his right hand, lacing their fingers together as she leads him to her bedroom with only the light in the palm of her hand to guide their way. “Take off your shoes and lie down,” she instructs him, pulling her phone out of her back pocket to have it rest on the nightstand against the candle. 

“If you wanted to have your way with me, Swan, all you had to do was ask,” he says with a waggle of his brow and a smirk appearing on his face. It takes everything in her not to roll her eyes as she slips out of her own shoes and sits down on the bed. 

When her hand grasps his brace, she feels him tense against her. She carries on, removing his hand first and then his brace before she sets them aside on the nightstand. 

“ _Emma_.”

She simply rests her head on her pillow and faces him, hand coming to rest lightly against his shoulder. “Henry’s not a fan of thunderstorms either,” she tells him. His head turns to face her. “Won’t admit it to anyone, but he curls himself up here until the storm passes or he passes out. Whichever comes first.”

“I—”

“Sleep,” she says. Another crack of thunder rolls through. Killian’s hand goes flying to hers, eyes shutting tightly. She laces their fingers together and nudges him just enough so that his back’s now pressed against her chest, the two of them joined from legs to shoulders. “I’ll be right here. I’ll keep you safe.”

They fall asleep to the sound of rain pattering against her window.When she awakes, his side of the bed’s empty. _No_ , she corrects herself quickly. _Not his side. Just the side he happened to sleep on last night_. She’s ready to dive into that pit, the one where the waters just drown her with thoughts of _too good to be true_  when she hears voices outside her door. 

She manages to get her hair looking somewhat decent before she exits her room, all but blinded at the bright lights and _sun_  coming through from the kitchen windows. 

“Mom!” Henry says, looking up from his plate of eggs and bacon and _is that french toast_? “Did you know Killian can cook? Really good, too!”

“I did not,” Emma says, stealing a bite of eggs off Henry’s plate before she heads over to see what’s still on the stove. 

“What do you say, lad? Not bad for a guy with one hand. I’d like to think I’d give _Chopped_  a new meaning, were I ever to appear on the show.”

Emma rolls her eyes. She’s opened the floodgate for all the one-handed jokes he’s had up his sleeve. She groans at that too before she heads for the coffee maker and pours herself a cup. 

“How’d you sleep last night?” she asks. 

The smile he offers her along with his soft, “Never better,” has her smiling in return. 

“It’s about time,” Henry says, stuffing another piece of bacon into his mouth. “And Ruby said I’d never be able to do it.”

(Her son, the matchmaker. Now that’ll take some getting used to.)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! you can find me on tumblr at: themmaswan!


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